Curse the Darkness
by Lauren Eli
Summary: Bella's life falls through her expectations


_Better to light a candle than to_  
**Curse the Darkness**

  
Thanks: To Debi, Nicky, and Sue, for helping to calm my writing related anxiety with kind opinions and helpful suggestions.   


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    I always thought my first time would be with someone I knew better than I know myself. He would call me 'Bel' and hold my hand as we walked into a restaurant, to show everyone I was his. Afterwards, we would sit and watch the stars. It would start with a simple kiss and unexpectedly turn into more. It would turn into the best night of my life.   
  
    That's not what happened. I was just a silly girl with silly expectations of a love better than any boy from New Rawley can offer. He showed me that. Actually, I've always known - he just brought it to the surface.   
  
    He doesn't wear blue polo shirts, his face isn't soft and kind and boyish. His face is angular and brutally attractive. His actions are calculated and ruthless, just like his smile. Black is the only consistent color in his wardrobe, which is extensive as well as expensive. Sleeveless shirts show off his muscles and the large cross twined with roses tattooed on his left bicep. I never thought it meshed well with his demeanor, but it must have some significant meaning. All his actions do. His lips twist into a sadistic, taunting smirk as he calls me 'Bel' when other people are around. It's cruelly ironic in a way that I don't want to face, and yet somehow no more that I ever expected in my life. But when we are alone in my room, he calls me 'Baby' with a lustful edge in his voice that makes my stomach twist in desire.   
  
    He cuts the car engine as he pulls into the drive. I can tell it's him by the quiet creak of his finely polished car door and his determined, loud steps - like he belongs at the gas station at 1:13 on a Tuesday morning. Hiding in the shadows of my sheer pink curtain, I watch him. He walks like a confident man, though he's only eighteen. He knows I like it. Just as I like it when, in a rough, uneven whisper, he delivers his empty promise to help me escape New Rawley. It's not the truth, but that doesn't change the fact that I like to hear the earnestness in his words. He wants to escape as much as I do...only he has the chance.   
  
    His eyes drift up to my window. I must not have hidden myself well enough because he shoots a knowing grin in my direction. Stepping out from the shadows, I flip him off. His smirk grows to the closest thing I've seen to a smile on his face; he has won our game. Absently, my hands reach to the hem of my short skirt, preparing to lower it a few inches but I pause and decide to hike it up. It won't be on much longer anyway. I pull my hair out of the standard French braid I wear while working on cars because he told me once that he likes the feel of my hair against his skin. If that could be considered a compliment, it's the only one I've gotten from him.   
  
    The steps to my room barely squeak as he climbs them in a practiced rhythm. We've had a lot of time to practice. Too much time. I want those minutes and hours and days back until I return to the Bella I used to be. The one my friends still expect and the one I find myself too restless to endure right now. But they're gone, faster than he is after our sexual interlude. _Interludes_. Multiple. Plural. Yet, it doesn't seem like it's more than one. We are one continuous game with no ending and no new beginnings. I don't know how I let it start, but now I'm caught in its bitter cycle. Attraction, Sex, Dismissal. Attraction, Sex, Dismissal. Attraction, Sex, Dismissal.   
  
    This wasn't supposed to happen. It's a stupid excuse but it's the only one I can hold on to. It wasn't supposed to happen, but I let it. He accepted it, I let it. I let him into my house, into my room. Into me. All because I got drunk one night at a party, angry over Scout and his _precious new girlfriend_, and Ryder said something nice to me. At least, I think it was nice. I don't remember much after he slipped his hand into my shirt and led me to the bed.   
  
    The door swings open and his blonde hair glints in the soft candle glow. So do his sleek, black sunglasses. It's night, but he wears them anyway. "That's his style," he tells me. I wonder if Attraction, Sex, Dismissal is his style, too. Or am I the only one? Please let me be the only one.   
  
    He pulls me close, into the heat of his body. I tell myself the spark in his deep blue eyes is warmth, not just hunger, as I smile up at him. He smells of cigarettes, cologne and...wilderness - like he has been outside in the woods surrounding Rawley Lake all day. Somehow those strong scents mixed with the underlying earthy tone suits him. I nuzzle my head into where his neck meets his shoulder, lined by his jutting collarbone, and breathe him in. If I could breathe him in all day, I would. He is a part of me that neither of us can escape. His hands have already found their way under my skirt and I know he is leering as my breath turns ragged. His fingers are skilled, rubbing and teasing before dipping into me. He wants me. The volume of my soft moan increases.   
  
    "Let's not get ahead of ourselves." His lips move in a whispered touch next to my ear as he speaks, before kissing my temple sensuously. I nod into his soft, ribbed black shirt. I will do anything to hear him say those words again:   
  
    _We'll get out of Rawley._   
  
    Reaching for my zipper, I see that controlling smirk again and wonder what he tells his 'mates' about me. Am I beautiful? Smart? Funny? How would he know, we never talk? We do more than speak, we listen. To the things that the other isn't saying, to the yearnings that remain unvoiced. Or am I just good in bed? Another easy townie? Another girl that goes into his trophy box? Does he tell them the things he says while we make love?   
  
    _You're everything. I need you. Only you. You're better than this place._   
  
    No, I bet those hit the editing room floor. Who am I kidding? He probably doesn't even remember saying them.   
  
    Cradling his head, I bring him into a fierce kiss made more voracious by the heat of the room and the knowledge of our secret rendezvous. Doesn't anyone wonder why his Corvette always needs a tune-up? Or an oil change? Or a paint job, a new side mirror? We're running out of things to fix. I only wish that sentence applied to my life. Maybe he'll buy that beat-up old '57 Ford on the corner of Main and Elks and ask me to help him restore it. I tell myself I'll ask him later, but I never will. He doesn't take suggestions from anyone, let alone his 'townie slut.'   
  
    His fingers, cool from the night air, slide across my warm flesh and inside my underwear again. His eyes gleam as I hold onto his shoulder for stability, wrap one leg around his waist, and moan into his golden skin.   
  
    Why does he make me feel like this? Why do I give him everything he doesn't deserve?   
  
    It's simple; I want him. Here, in the fucked-up package of Ryder Forrest, is the security, consistency, and complexity never before offered to me. We don't end. We are a continuous cycle of pleasure without the emotional risk and acceptance without the actual acceptance - it's more like indifference to each other's faults. But it doesn't matter because I don't love him. I could, but I don't. That would be stupid - to give my emotions to someone as careless as Ryder - and I don't let myself be a stupid, oblivious teenager anymore.   
  
    A name that I could repeat forever. Ryder Forrest, my Ryder.   
  
    He's not mine though.   
  
    I just say that to justify moments like these. Ryder Forrest isn't even his real name. It's Gregor Ryder. I saw it on his driver's license once, before he quickly snatched it away and asked me what the hell I was doing. He told me not to tell anyone. Even back then I knew he was talking about more than his name. I can't blame him though, who really wants to be called Gregor? Even Greg doesn't match his personality.   
  
    No, he's not mine. No more mine than my creation. How I wish I could have created such a character. Then life would be simple again, not as simple as it once was, but easy in an understandable manner. I would know how he worked. I would know how he thought. I would know his reasons and I would know how he felt as he came and whether it was me he thought of when he did. Or some other girl. A stupid, ignorant girl who could never give him what I do.   
  
    A reason. A reason for leaving, for coming back, for the cycle that closes around and spins us in its infinite web.   
  
    My body begins to shudder and undulate against his cold, cruel fingers. His rings press into my flesh, imprinting their design on my tender skin. And I realize I want him more than I've ever wanted anyone before. My hands grasp tightly onto his muscular frame for balance, pressing my fingernails into his skin to equal the tension in my body. He increases the pace of his adept touch and I squeeze my body around him before I relax in the euphoria of the seconds before release.   
  
    But a hard knock from the door breaks the pleasure as his movements stop and his fingers withdraw.   
  
    "Bella? I thought I heard - "   
  
    Time seems to slow, but I regain my senses as I watch the knob twist, unlatching from the door catch. I am standing in my room, disheveled, with my skirt on the floor and a boy sitting proudly on my bed making no attempt to hide.   
  
    I throw myself at the door and slam it shut. "Charlie. Privacy, please!" Ryder is choking back his untimely laughter behind me.   
  
    "Sorry, honey. I just wanted to make sure you were all right."   
  
    "I'm fine. Just getting ready for bed." I hope he can't hear my breathlessness as I speak. Pressing my ear to the door, I listen for the squeak of his shoes as he walks back down the hall to his room.   
  
    "Okay." Pausing, he waits for me to say something, but I can't. "Well, G'night. I love you."   
  
    He wants an answer, just a simple _I love you too, dad_. But I can't bring the words to the surface. Maybe I have been around Ryder too long. Instead, I nod at the door, like he can see me through an inch and a half of cheap wood paneling. I feel like an idiot enough for almost having Charlie walk in on me with Ryder. Even in town, he's known as a boy to keep your daughter away from. And then Ryder has to add his commentary.   
  
    "Remind me to buy you a door that locks for Christmas."   
  
    My first instinct is a quick, powerful slap across his face for that sarcastic comment, but my brain registers past the sarcasm to the actual words. I turn around to face him, narrowing my eyes. "You're going to buy me a present?"   
  
    With a brief scoff and a wry smile, he tilts toward me. "Well, it's only gentlemanly to buy a lady a gift for major holidays if you're screwing her."   
  
    He's moved to the bed, laying with his arms folded behind his head and his feet crossed at the ankles. When I take a sweeping glance of him, his strong arms, his toned chest and stomach, his khaki cargo pants, and those black, worn boots, he quirks his head at me. I move quickly. Faster than he expects, and manage to catch him off-guard . I take advantage of his surprise. Holding his arms against my purple flowered pillow, I straddle him and rub my hips in agonizing slow circles. When his teeth tug on his lower lip and his eyes roll back, I grin. I am in control now. I am the one playing the game. I am the one winning. He tries to fight his involuntary movement against me but his body craves what his mind cannot control. Me. Being inside me and feeling the hot skin against skin in painfully slow motions. Knowing that he was the first to have me.   
  
    I am the ultimate trophy.   
  
    Soon no one is winning the game. I can't fight the need to have him in me. When I let go of his hands, he grabs my hips and forcefully pulls me down as he rotates against me. I gasp at the feeling and unconsciously squeeze my thighs around him, dragging him so close that there is nothing separating us but the cloth of his pants and boxers. All that is coherent in my foggy mind is _deeper_. I need him to fill me. To go deeper into my soul. Seeing things that I don't let people see, rising me above the mess that life has created for me.   
  
    He guides my hands to his belt buckle. Harshness has left his features and desire has taken its place. He stares at me and his eyes are soft now. No more anger, no more malevolence. The stony front is gone.   
  
    This is my favorite time to see him.   
  
    The cool, sleek metal glides under my touch and my fingers wander over buttons and zippers that separate me from the wonderful oblivion he brings. I close my eyes and let my instincts take over.   
  
    As always when we are finished, I lay wrapped in my sheet and watch him sit at my open window sill and smoke. Looking ready to jump if the mood suits him. Tonight his profile is made a silhouette by the full moon. Other nights, nights empty of any moon at all, he's nothing but the red burning cinders of his cigarette. I'm used to the smell of cigarettes now, his Marlboro's.   
  
    "Funny..." It slipped out before I could think better of it .   
  
    He shifts toward me without saying anything. If it was light, I could see if his eyebrows were raised in that questioning but uninterested manner. For now, I just assume that they are.   
  
    "Well, I mean - Marlboro's. Their symbol is the cowboy, right? Or is that some other brand? I always get them mixed up," I'm stammering and I know I sound stupid but there's nothing I can really do now. It's not like he's _not_ going to come around anymore. I'm good in bed, he said so himself, only in less tactful terms.   
  
    "Yes, that's Marlboro's." He's annoyed by me now, it's clear in his voice. I'm just a pest who isn't disappearing after her task has been completed..   
  
    "Doesn't the cowboy kinda represent everything you hate? Y'know...Americans?"   
  
    He shrugs and turns back to look at the stars and finish his smoke. His chin is raised indignantly toward the sky and I wonder if he's searching for his answer out there when he could find it in me.   
  
    "Cause you could smoke any cigarette, so why...?"   
  
    "...Marlboro's? Listen," he hunches over and takes one last inhale. "Sometimes you don't choose something. Sometimes it chooses you." A final flick and the cigarette butt flies out the window and sails into the dark night with a rapid arced descent.   
  
    I stare at my hands as they twist and untwist in the sheet. Next to the bed is his empty package of Marlboro's and I wonder if the next day I'll see him smoking some new brand. I pray to God that doesn't happen.   
  
    "Get some sleep." He sits still on the window, never turning around, never making eye contact with me. I sweep the red and white cellophane package into my pale green trash can and turn to face the wall, hugging my comforter around me to faze out the sudden chill. I surrender to the welcome pull of sleep with one final thought in mind: _I'll get out of here someday_.   
  
    The next morning I awake and foolishly turn to the window, hoping to find him there, watching me sleep with one leg balanced on the sill, the other hanging down to touch my beige carpet. The words he uttered the night before, while unguarded by pleasure, still taste sweet on my lips.   
  
    _I want you. Only you. You deserve more than this life_.   
  
    The sunlight streams in and my eyes, confined to darkness for the past six hours, close in protest. I want back into my dream. The dream where he is cognizant of the words he whispers in my ear. His voice is sweet and true while still maintaining that cocky attitude.   
  
    I stagger to the window to sit where he did the night before, the blanket that smells of him - of us - still wrapped around me. I bury my face in the soft green cotton to hold onto that scent uniquely Ryder - cigarettes, cologne and wilderness. It's only then, as I look up, that a glint of silver catches my eye, contrasted by a dash of red underneath it. I lean forward, eyes narrowing to inspect the unfamiliar items. A new package of Marlboro's sits on my window and on top of it, his ring. A silver small band with intricate designs, complex and confusing, that form no pattern I can discern.   
  
    I toss the ring on my night stand, and note, with an ironic smile, that it lands next to the open condom square. Tearing off the clear Marlboro's packaging, I tap the box against my palm, like I've seen Ryder do so many times, until a single cigarette peeks out. With a calm hand, I place it in my mouth and rifle through my trinkets on the desk until I find a book of matches.   
  
    The flame bursts instantly, hot and bright next to my skin. I cup my hand around it and lead it to the end of the cigarette. My first. Because this is my style and so is ...   
  
    Attraction.   
  
    Sex.   
  
    Dismissal.   
  
    Desire to do it all again.   
  


[The End]


End file.
